


It's Christmas, Sherlock

by HidingintheInkwell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Mary and John are just friends, Sherlock being a Scrooge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 19:57:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingintheInkwell/pseuds/HidingintheInkwell
Summary: John heaved a deep sigh as he started up the stairs to their flat. Sherlock had been in a royally foul mood all week. The Yard hadn’t had any particularly interesting cases and the last client they’d had had left in tears within the first five minutes of her being there.Sherlock, it seemed, had made it his personal mission to destroy every last bit of Christmas Spirit John had tried to bring into the flat, and John was done. If Sherlock was going to insist on being a Scrooge, then he could do it alone.Maybe a few visitors can help him change his ways





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've always loved A Christmas Carol, I read it every year around the holidays, and I watch the Muppets version every year. This time, however, I decided Sherlock could get in on the action too.

John heaved a deep sigh as he started up the stairs to their flat. Sherlock had been in a royally foul mood all week. The Yard hadn’t had any particularly interesting cases and the last client they’d had had left in tears when within the first five minutes of her being there Sherlock had told her that her husband was having an affair with another man because she was too vanilla in bed and he needed a…  _ special _ kind of attention. Of course, those hadn’t been his exact words. The poor girl was maybe in her mid-twenties and had clearly married who she thought was the perfect man. John had kindly offered her a tissue and walked her out before going back up to find out just what the  _ hell  _ was wrong with his flatmate. It also didn’t help that Sherlock had been banned from Barts two days ago after taking out his frustrations on poor Molly. Sherlock was often foul toward the poor girl, but this time he’d been particularly awful, comparing her current boyfriend to her choice of partners when she’d been interested in Jim. The remarks had earned him a slap to the face and a ban from going into any of Bart’s labs till after the holiday, or when Molly decided to forgive him. 

Of course, it wasn’t just Sherlock’s dark mood that had John at his wits end, it was the decorations. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to contribute much to getting the flat festive, instead taking it upon himself to hang up some festive decorations. First it had been a wreath, which he’d hung on the door only to come home from the surgery to find it nearly dead and tossed in the bin. He hadn’t thought much, figured maybe it hadn’t been the hardiest or perhaps the toxic fumes from one of Sherlock’s experiments had killed it. A week later, though, he’d brought home Fairy lights to string up only to find them in a hopelessly tangled ball with every single bulb blown. This time he’d confronted Sherlock, only to be met with a grunt and something half mumbled about a blown fuse. After the incident in Bart’s, he’d brought home a small tree and a book of christmas songs for the violin. The book had been turned into varying origami and confetti flakes within the day, but when he’d left for the surgery that morning the tree and it’s meager decorations had still been standing. 

John afforded himself a small smile as he neared the top of the stairs. He’d used an old newspaper and some popcorn to make garland and stuck a few of Sherlock’s origami creations on it as well, but there was one special ornament that he’d hung on there that made him smile every time he looked at it. It had been a gift from Mrs. Hudson last year, a picture of him and Sherlock wrapped around each other, asleep in Santa hats and the absolutely horrid Christmas jumpers that had been a gag gift from the Yard. John’s had portrayed a reindeer with christmas lights tangled around it’s antlers and Sherlock’s had been Grumpy Cat wearing a Santa hat with the words “Nope, not today” underneath. Sally had secretly told him that Anderson had wanted to get one that had an elf’s bare arse with “Kiss Me” tatted on one cheek but Lestrade had quickly vetoed. John had been pleased. Getting his flatmate into the cat one had been hard enough. 

They’d had a wonderful time celebrating and everyone had had perhaps a bit too much eggnog, and John hadn’t even been aware that he and Sherlock had fallen asleep curled up together until Mrs. Hudson had gifted him the small framed ornament. She’d explained that Molly had taken it, having forgotten her purse when they’d all left and had snuck back up to retrieve it. John had kept it on his nightstand, warmth curling in his chest every time he looked at it. He’d managed to keep his feelings for the lanky detective secret this long, but hadn’t been able to resist hanging the photo on the little tree. 

One hand was already on the door handle while the other worked on unwrapping his scarf when he smelled it, something was burning, but it didn’t smell like one of Sherlock’s experiments again. It actually smelled a bit like… pine. Pine and scorched popcorn. Eyes wide, he shoved open the door and stumbled into the living room. Sherlock was lying on the couch, fingers steepled beneath his chin and John could see one of who knows how many nicotine patches sticking out from beneath his dressing gown sleeve. John’s eyes scanned the flat. Nothing burning on the stove or in the kitchen, Sherlock’s violin was still safely tucked away in its case (not that John expected that to have been the source of the smell but one never knows when it comes to Sherlock In A Mood), and the pile of mail was still on the desk. That left one thing… John felt his heart sink when his eyes finally landed on where the tree had once been, a place that now sat empty save for a few browning needles. His gaze shifted to the fireplace, flames blazing cheerfully as they licked at the sappy branches, smoke billowing up the chimney from the too green wood. With a snap, the trunk split, releasing a flutter of scorched origami animals to the updraft, and John felt ice clench his heart.  _ The picture.  _ If Sherlock hadn’t bothered to de-decorate the tree before throwing it in, then the picture was still in there!

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” He cried, rushing to the fireplace and grabbing up a pair of tongs and a poker, desperately sifting through burning wood and swirling ash. Behind him he heard the weary creak of springs as Sherlock shifted on the couch, no doubt sitting up and watching John’s frantic searching. Dropping the tools long enough to shed his coat when an errant ember threatened to catch, he grabbed up the tongs again and moved aside a bit of branch, finally spotting a blackened corner of the frame. Relief flooded through him as he reached out, carefully plucking the frame toward him, singeing his fingers and sending clouds of ash into his face every time he was forced to drop it. The top of his hand pumped the underside of a smoldering branch, drawing a pained hiss from John as molten sap left a streak he knew was going to blister. “John, what do you think you’re doing?” he heard Sherlock ask, voice tinged just slightly with alarm, but John ignored him, instead cradling the small ornament in his hands. The frame was a lost cause, paint blistered and wood scorched, the glass warped and blackened from the heat, but as he carefully pulled them away and released the photo, he was relieved to see that the photo inside, while a little charred around the edges, remained mostly untouched. 

“Honestly, John. It’s only a tree, a half dead wood corpse you insist on decorating with junk and a stupid photo. If anything you should be thanking me for removing the fire hazard. Are you aware of how many home fires are started yearly from people’s insistence of putting up Christmas trees?” John felt something inside him shrivel the same time a flood of anger rose up inside him. He climbed to his feet, turning slowly to face his flatmate. “Thanking you?” he questioned, fighting to keep his voice calm and low. “ _ Thanking you? _ Sherlock, I put up with a lot from you. The body parts in the fridge, in the bathtub, your constant insistence on playing the violin at all hours, and even your constant insults of mine and the general human race’s intelligence, but Sherlock, this has crossed a line. I don’t know what you seem to have against Christmas, but you could have just asked me to take away the tree instead of  _ throwing it in the bloody fireplace!  _ The least you could have done was remove the only ornament I bothered to put on it!” 

Sherlock was standing a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his dressing gown as he studied John. “I don’t understand why you’re upset. It’s a rather ridiculous photo taken on an occasion when we were both rather intoxicated. More than likely it was meant as a token of mocking, though why it has not come up sooner is not clear. I suspect Lestrade having something to do with it.” The longer Sherlock talked, the tighter the ice squeezed around John’s heart, and he could feel himself paling beneath the heat and anger induced flush across his cheeks. Each dismissive word that left the taller man’s mouth was like a dagger. He heard a faint crinkle and realised that he was clutching the poor photo in his balled fist. He dropped his gaze and relaxed his fist, taking a steadying breath as he smoothed it back out between his fingers. 

“Sherlock,” he started, keeping his eyes locked on the photo to hide the wetness that had started accumulating in his eyes. “Sherlock, Christmas is tomorrow, and you’ve just destroyed the last bit of Christmas cheer I’ve tried to bring into this flat. I’m… I’m done trying, I should think.” He looked up to meet those calculating blue eyes, drawing a shaky breath as he did so. “Does this mean you will finally put this frivolous attempt at holiday cheer behind you and make us some tea?” John shook his head. “No, Sherlock. I’m going to Mary’s. Her parents are in town and she’s already invited me for dinner. You can make your own tea and enjoy your humbug by yourself. I’ll be back tomorrow, maybe the day after. Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” With that he was tugging back on his coat and disappearing out the door, picture fluttering from his grasp as he did so. As he climbed into the first available cab, he sent Mary a quick text asking to set up the lie-low for him. She replied almost immediately with a smiley face and a quick “ _ the parents are excited to see you again _ ” that John quickly read before shoving the phone into his pocket and turned his face to the window. His knee and heart gave sympathetic twinges.


	2. Moriarty's Ghost

Sherlock stood statue-still for a long while after the door had clicked shut behind John. Not a huff and slam like what was expected from most, no. That wasn’t John’s style. Long after he was sure the short doctor was gone, he walked over and picked up the forgotten picture. Contrary to what he was sure John believed, he remembered everything that had gone on the night that particular photo had been taken. The eggnog had relaxed him, but not compromised his inhibitions nearly as much as he led on to believe. Instead he’d been a little more than drunk on John. John, who even in the garish holiday jumper had managed to look handsome, cheeks flushed with happiness and alcohol and eyes glittering in the fairy lights Mrs. Hudson had strung up while they’d been away. They’d collapsed onto the couch together after the gift exchange, John having forced him into his own horrid jumper, though perhaps not nearly as bad as the flashing lights on John’s own. 

John had fallen asleep first, well before the first of their “guests” had even left. Somehow he’d gone from propping himself on the armrest to curled into Sherlock’s side, one arm flung across the detective’s chest and his head resting against one shoulder. Finding himself effectively trapped, he’d allowed Mrs. Hudson to do the duty of host and see the guests out, their landlady offering them a warm smile as she followed, closing their door behind her. Warmed by the alcohol and the weight of his friend, Sherlock had found himself slipping into the muzzy haze of half sleep, curling into the warmth of John, burying his face in soft, sandy locks and breathing in the scent of tea and floral shampoo and something uniquely defined as  _ John.  _ He’d heard the creak of floorboards and caught the whiff of Molly’s perfume right before the click of her mobile’s camera, but he was too comfortable and too sleepy to have cared less. That was until he’d found the picture framed in the tacky ornament on John’s nightstand. 

He tucked the damage photo into his pocket before moving to the kitchen to prepare himself some tea. He’d kept waiting for the photo to make an appearance around the Yard, as blackmail or mocking he wasn’t sure, but it never had.  _ Perhaps I did go a bit far this time _ , he thought as he waited for his tea to steep. The look on John’s face had reminded him too much of the man who’d first moved in with him, of the man who’d punched him (deservedly, he could admit now) twice after he made a reappearance from his staged death. He’d been pale, paler than Sherlock had seen of him in a long time. The dampness around his eyes could have been mistaken by many to be a result of close proximity to the fire and ash, but Sherlock knew better. Those tears weren’t caused by smoke irritation. 

Taking his tea, he settled himself back down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling as he steepled his fingers. He really hadn’t understood John’s need to bring some Holiday spirit into the flat. A frivolous holiday steeped in contradictions, so many arguing “Put the Christ back in Christmas” even while they celebrated a fat serial intruder in a ridiculous red suit and pagan rituals. It was all useless nonsense and he’d have deleted it years ago if it wasn’t something he was constantly reminded of in every shop window and cheesy telly commercial. He wished it would go ahead and hurry on by so he could get back to the important things. 

He must have zoned while he lay there, popcorn ceiling swirling above his head until everything was blanked out because the next thing he became aware of was a sharp creak of the floorboards. He blinked, world blurring as his dry eyes moistened themselves. “John?” he called, sitting up, only to have his blood run cold. Leaning against the now stone cold fireplace, studying the skull with the same intensity Hamlet gave to Yorick, was Moriarty. “Alas, poor Yorick,” the psychopath quoted, turning the skull in his hand before plunking it back down on the mantel and giving Sherlock his attention. “Or I guess I should say, ‘Alas, poor Sherlock’. Hello, Sherlock. Miss me?” Sherlock slowly rose to his feet. “You’re dead,” he stated. “You’ve been dead for nearly three years now. You blew your own brains out on the roof of Barts.” 

Moriarty smiled, dark eyes locked on Sherlock’s. “Yes, that is true. I am indeed very dead. I’ve got worms crawling through my guts and little bugs and fungus eating me and everything. And yet, you’re still wondering what I’m doing here.” Sherlock said nothing, staying in the middle of the room while he mentally tracked where the nearest suitable weapon was in relation to where he’d left his phone. Moriarty pouted. “Come now, Sherlock. Don’t be like that! We both know that you’re tied between believing this is a nicotine induced hallucination and that I somehow managed to survive blowing out my brains. We’ve been through this already. Would you feel better if I showed you?” Before Sherlock could answer, the Madman was turning around, putting the missing back of his head on full display. Sherlock could see all the way through to the back of the other man’s orbital cavities. His stomach flipped over. 

“Happy now?” Moriarty asked, turning back around and smirking. “My, my, Sherlock. Looking a little green there. Curiosity finally sated, then?” Sherlock said nothing. Moriarty gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well the least you could do is offer me a seat, seeing as I’ve come all this way.” Sherlock motioned toward his chair, but Moriarty instead plopped himself down in John’s chair, wriggling a bit to get comfortable. Sherlock felt something well up inside him, something he couldn’t place a name to, so he forced it down and plopped into his own chair, studying the man across from him. “So why are you here?” he asked. Clearly this wasn’t some kind of hoax, and he’d already tried pinching himself in case this was a dream. Moriarty smiled. “I’m here to help you, Sherlock!” Sherlock snorted, but said nothing. He wanted to see where this was going. “See, Sherlock, you and I, we’re the same. We both get  _ bored  _ with the affairs of these pathetic little humans.” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, he’d never have strapped bombed to innocent people for the sake of a little fun, but Moriarty silenced him with a raised hand. “Please, Sherlock, don’t patronize. We both know you’d have done many of the same things in a heartbeat if you thought it would relieve the incessant  _ boredom.  _ Even if just for a minute.” 

Sherlock sank back in his chair, thinking of some of the things John had harped him about. Severed head in the fridge, penis in the microwave, torturing his violin at four in the morning until even the strays were howling right along with him. The young woman who’d left in tears because she hadn’t wanted to accept what he was telling her. The slap he’d received from Molly. Moriarty was staring at him, one brow cocked knowingly. “See now, Sherlock? That’s why I’m here. See, it’s evidently expected of every one of us to be  _ kind,  _ and  _ helpful  _ to others. To ‘Respect our fellow man’, if you will. Sounds boring, if you ask me, but then, I guess that’s why I’m trussed up like a turkey!” Moriarty broke out in laughter, gesturing to his body like he expected Sherlock to see something besides his well-fitting suit. Just as abruptly as they’d started, Moriarty’s laughs stopped and he stared at Sherlock with a level of seriousness the detective wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on the other man. “That’s right,” the madman said, voice soft. “You can’t see them, can you…” 

Moriarty stood, hands swiftly unbuttoning first his suit jacket, before popping the buttons one by one on his dress shirt. Fingers lingered on the last button before popping it from it’s hole and pulling the sides apart, revealing a lean, pale chest fettered in rope-chains, some tight enough to turn the flesh beneath them red. Had that chest continued to rise and fall, it surely would have felt the constriction and the way the metal bit into skin with each inhale. “Like them, Sherlock? I made them myself.” Moriarty asked, fingers caressing them like they were a thing of beauty. Something to be  _ admired _ . Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look away. “I never pegged you as one interested in the kinkier side of the carnal arts.” Moriarty stopped caressing the chains. “Silly Sherlock,” he said, tone patronizing. “I made these with my actions. With every word, with every order. Boredom has a price, Sherlock, and this is it.” 

Moriarty paused for a long moment, giving Sherlock the opportunity to study the chains. They were intricate, metal interweaving with itself more like fibers than chain links. “You’ve got them too, you know. They weren’t  _ quite  _ as bad as mine were all those years ago, but my my, Sherlock. Somebody’s been a busy boy since then! Why, that little faking your death act alone nearly  _ doubled  _ your chains! Can you feel them?” Moriarty’s voice dropped to a hush, his eyes wide as he leaned into Sherlock’s personal space. “Can you feel them with every breath?” One cold hand came to press against Sherlock’s chest and the dark haired detective could  _ swear  _ that his breaths were becoming shorter, his chest tightening with each one.  _ Power of suggestion, _ his brain supplied, though it sounded weak even to him. The clock on the mantel suddenly chimed out 8 o’clock. When had it become so late? Moriarty straightened swiftly. “Would you look at that, my time is nearly up! Now before I go, Sherlock, I’ve been told to tell you to expect three more ghosts before the end of the night. The first should be here about one in the morning. They’re coming to teach you lessons, Sherlock, so be a good boy and listen to them. They’re going to try and keep you from becoming me!” 

Turning on his heels, shirt fluttering around him from where he’d neglected to button it back up and offering Sherlock another view of the missing back of his head, the Madman strode to the door, flung it open, and with a “Ta, Sherlock! Good luck!” tossed over his shoulder, he was pounding down the stairs. Sherlock bolted from his seat and to the window, phone already in hand, but no Moriarty made an appearance. He stood there staring for over an hour, even went down to investigate the bottom floors and interrupt Mrs. Hudson’s evening herbal soother to ask if she’d seen anyone leave, but there was no sign of the dead psychopath. Sherlock trudged his way back up to his flat, locking the door behind him for good measure, though he doubt it would stop someone determined enough. Hadn’t before. He threw himself down on the couch, curling in on himself. He’d never been one inclined to believe in ghosts, but even he couldn’t just ignore what had happened. Moriarty had been  _ in his living room.  _ Had held a conversation with him, had  _ touched  _ him. 

He pressed a palm to his chest, feeling only skin and muscles and bone beneath his worn t-shirt. Breathing out a sigh, he let himself drop into an exhausted slumber. 

  
  



	3. The First of the Three Ghosts

Sherlock woke up to the feeling of eyes on him. Not the first time, but still no less disturbing. Glancing down at his watch, he noticed that it was just past one in the morning. “Come now, Sherlock. Let’s stop acting childish.” He held back a groan. “Mycroft, what are you doing here at this god-forsaken hour?” He rolled over to glare at his brother, only to stop short. Instead of his usual fastidious black suit, he was dressed in a pristine white, so bright it appeared to glow in the semi-dark. Even his umbrella was white. “What on earth are you wearing?” Mycroft smiled. It had never been one of Sherlock’s favorite expressions. It always made his brother look a bit like the Penguin from those Batman comics Mummy had insisted on buying him. He’d told Mycroft such once when he was especially annoyed with him. He was maybe 12 at the time and Mycroft had been especially fat back then, which only helped the illusion. He hadn’t stopped calling him Penguin for three years after that. 

“Sherlock, I thought you were supposed to be intelligent! Did you learn nothing from your conversation with Moriarty earlier?” Those words set the gears in his head turning. For one, Mycroft would never be caught in a  _ white  _ suit. For two, Mycroft knew better than to insult his little brother’s intelligence. “You’re it, then? The first ghost who’s supposed to teach me a lesson?” the being with Mycroft’s face nodded, smile still there. “Ghost of Christmas Past, at your service, though you may still refer to me with your brother’s name, if it makes you more comfortable.” Sherlock swung his feet off the couch and sat up. “Of all the faces you could have chosen,  _ this  _ is the one you choose?” That smile didn’t falter. “We’re traveling into your past, Mr. Holmes. I felt this particular face was fitting.”

Now  _ that  _ got Sherlock’s attention. “What do you mean, we’re traveling into my past?” C.P. Mycroft (as Sherlock dubbed him in his head, as calling it Mycroft was untrue and calling it The Ghost of Christmas Past was much too time consuming) stood and held out a hand, which Sherlock ignored. “Time travel is a physical impossibility.” Something in that grin changed, and Sherlock didn’t like it. “My dear Sherlock,” and weren’t  _ those  _ words weird sounding coming out of his brother’s mouth, “you’re about to realize that there are a  _ lot  _ more possible things than even your brilliant mind can fathom. Now come along, we only have so long.” 

Sherlock stood and took the offered hand. With its other, C.P. Mycroft popped open the umbrella and began twirling it. Sherlock watched as with each rotation, the flat around them began to ripple and fade until they were left standing in a very familiar driveway. “You recognize where we are?” C.P. Mycroft asked, dropping their hands and collapsing the umbrella. Sherlock nodded, fighting a shiver. Several inches of snow covered the lawn to either side of them and two children bickered over a snowman. “I take it you remember this particular Christmas?” Another nod. Try as he might, this was one particular memory that refused to be deleted. 

The Holmes family never did the whole ‘Santa Claus’ thing, not that it would have lasted long anyway. On the particular year in question, Sherlock had received his first chemistry set, a book about bees, and a book about pirates. When the both of them had finished opening presents and helping their parents clean up the shredded wrappings, Mummy had sent them out to play while she and father had a ‘Grown-Up’ discussion. It had been Sherlock’s idea to build a snowman, but of course Mycroft had insisted on trying to take charge and tell Sherlock how it should be done. Sherlock had wanted to give him an eyepatch and a hook, Mycroft had wanted to give him a top hat and a monocle. The argument had come to blows, as Sherlock now watched, side by side with the figure in white who wore that same brother’s face, leaving Mycroft with a nasty bruise across the cheek and Sherlock with a bloody nose. 

“Shall we go inside?” C.P. Mycroft questioned as a beautiful woman dressed in trousers and a warm looking red jumper came out and called to the tussling duo. Sherlock nodded, letting the spirit lead him inside. They found themselves in the formal sitting room where just an hour prior there’d been the opening of presents. Father sat in his leather wingback while Mummy led both boys to the settee, having liberated them from their bulky winter clothing. Sherlock studied his younger self. Still pale with too many angles and a head full of dark curls, but he looked softer, round with that last bit of youth. In just a few short years he’d be hitting puberty and shoot up like a weed, losing all of that softness to the sharp jut of bone. He sat shoved into one end of the settee, curled into the corner while Mycroft sat proper at the other end, hands on his lap. “Always the good child,” Sherlock muttered to himself, earning a look from the figure next to him. “Am I assuming correctly when I say they can neither hear nor see us?” he asked. C.P. Mycroft nodded. “Indeed. Now shush and watch.” 

Mummy perched herself on the arm of Father’s chair and smiled. “Happy Christmas, Mycroft, Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s responding ‘Happy Christmas’ was much clearer than Sherlock’s mumbled one. Even at age nine Sherlock had been deducing, able to nearly perfectly guess what his presents had been. He could tell now by the way the smile on Mummy’s face didn’t quite reach her eyes, and the stiffness in Father’s shoulders that they had news, and whether or not it was good news was purely up to interpretation. “Sherlock, dear, we have an extra special little surprise for you,” Mummy started, drawing the attention of both Sherlocks. “You’ve been accepted into a very nice boarding school for gifted children such as yourself. We were going to wait and tell you closer to Summer so that you could start fall term, but when we told them about you, they want you to start in Spring.” 

The conversation went on, but it was muted and distant, not that Sherlock needed to hear it. After explaining about the school, Mummy would disappear briefly to come back with a trunk and a brand new uniform. They’d discuss it a little more before settling down to watch a Christmas movie together. A week after New Year, Sherlock would be packed away and taken to his new school in Northern Scotland. C.P. Mycroft turned to him, studying his face even as he watched his younger self curled into a ball, even then separating himself from his family. “A new school, how exciting! Brilliant mind such as yours must have been so  _ bored _ with school and simpleton classmates.” Sherlock caught the sarcasm, but chose not to respond. It was true, he’d been forever getting in trouble with his teachers for starting fights and calling his classmates stupid. He’d been excited about the new school, but at the same time a part of him had felt betrayed. His parents were sending him away. “They thought it was best. My parents are very understanding, always have been. They thought a school with children more like me would be best, more challenging.” 

“Then let us see another Christmas.” C.P. Mycroft held out a hand which Sherlock took without argument. As the umbrella spun and his childhood home faded away, Sherlock found himself unable to look away from the solemn expression half hidden beneath dark curls until it too faded away, replaced by a boy several years older, all sharp angles in his powder blue dress shirt under the obnoxiously yellow sweater vest that was his uniform. It was his last year at school before he’d be graduating to Uni. This Sherlock was hunched over a thick anatomy textbook while his roommate, a portly kid unlucky enough to have been stuck with him all term, was busy throwing his things into suitcases. The Cab was coming to take him to the airport soon, leaving Sherlock alone in their room for the Holiday. “Aren’t you going home, mate?” the kid asked, heaving his case off the bed and leaving it by the door. The younger Sherlock just hunched further over his textbook. 

C.P. Mycroft turned to the elder with one brow raised. “Why  _ did  _ you choose to stay here instead of going home?” Sherlock cleared his throat of the tightness that had taken up residence. “I’ve been home for Christmas once since I started here. It was my first year, and Mycroft and I spent the entire holiday bickering to the point where Father threatened to take a paddle to us, even though Mycroft was nearly an adult by then. I decided after that that Christmas holidays were better spent here studying. I don’t think I spent another Christmas at home until I’d graduated Uni.” Stepping away from the spirit, he leaned over the shoulder of his younger self, studying the diagram of the human nervous system printed across the page. This Sherlock had the starts of a black eye forming. “Still getting into fights, I see,” C.P. Mycroft said from where he still stood. Sherlock straightened. “A boy about a year or two older than me. I told his girlfriend he was cheating on her with the young History teacher. He didn’t… appreciate it.” 

“You got into a lot of fights.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock straightened. “I never started them, I simply stated facts that others were too ignorant to grasp. That they took offense was completely on them.” C.P. Mycroft gave him a look that was so reminiscent of the Real Mycroft’s that Sherlock had to fight the urge to stick his tongue out at him. “Come, Sherlock. I’ve got one more Christmas I want to show you.” Sighing, Sherlock took the hand and watched as the room around them faded out. 

The smell was what hit him first. It reeked of piss and unwashed bodies and the sticky sweet smell of opiates, and the damp chill cut through his dressing gown like claws. The walls were covered in layer upon layer of graffiti as bodies lay in varying states of intoxication. “What are we doing here?” Sherlock asked, feeling the thudding in his chest increase in tempo. “You know this place, then?” C.P. Mycroft asked, its white suit a startling contrast to the rest of the room. Sherlock knew this place better than he wished he did. He’d just graduated from Uni a week ago. During his time there, he’d made acquaintances who’d introduced him to many things. The world of drugs was one of them. He’d fallen fast, trying harder and harder substances, relishing in the way the world would spin away from him with one drug, while everything became hyper focused with another. One such acquaintance had invited him to a post-graduation party, and somehow Sherlock had found himself slipping from his drugged haze in the damp chill of the abandoned house his elder self now stood. 

There was a tapping, rhythmic and familiar, then a dark figure was emerging from the shadows. He was dressed in an impeccable suit, round but not nearly as round as he’d been when he was younger, though his hair was beginning to prematurely thin. His progression between bodies was slow, eyes roaming through the dim lighting until he seemed to have spotted his quarry, picking up pace and beelining for a corner where a curled figure lay. A shaft of light caught the gaudy crimson polyester of his gown as he groaned and shifted. “Sherlock,” Mycroft called as he crouched next to his stoned younger brother. “Sherlock, where is your list?” The younger Holmes half-heartedly batted at the searching hand until the crinkle of paper echoed loud among the breathy moans of the other druggies. “Sherlock, do you know what day it is?” 

The dark head of curls struggled upward. “Of course, Fatcroft,” he mumbled, losing his balance and collapsing back onto the ground. “I’s the s’nt’nth. I graduated y’sterd’y.” Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, no. It’s  _ Christmas.”  _ Sherlock frowned, pushing himself upright. He was pale as paper and gaunt enough to look like a walking skeleton, and the Elder Sherlock winced in sympathy. “Wh’d you mean, Christmas. Can’t be Christmas. You m’st ‘ave your days confused l’k always.” Mycroft shook his head and stood, gripping his brothers arms and pulling him upright, catching him as he swayed dangerously. “I’m never wrong about my days, Sherlock. It’s Christmas, and I’m taking you home. You’ll dry out, we’ll have Christmas dinner as a family and you’ll open your presents, and then tomorrow you are going to rehab. Now come along, Sherlock.” Mycroft kept a firm grip on the younger Holmes’ wrist as he led him through the mass of bodies. 

The Elder Sherlock turned to his companion. “Why did you bring me here?” he questioned. “Why have you shown me these nights. What point is there to force me into reliving these Christmases?” The Spirit smiled sadly. “To remind you of what led you to being who you are. A loving mum and dad who only wanted what was best for you, even if it meant sending you away to give you a better chance to build yourself as a person. They were even willing to let you spend Christmases locked away at an empty school instead of coming home so that you could have the opportunity to experience independence. And even when you’ve squandered it away on drugs and false friends, the brother you insult regularly still cares enough to track you down and bring you home so that you might spend Christmas with family instead of an opiate cocktail induced haze.” 

Ice was taking root inside his chest, but he’d be damned if he let this Spirit with his brother’s face see it. “Take me home. I’m bored with this little trip down memory lane.” C.P. Mycroft’s lips curled like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Very well.” He held out a hand and their surroundings spun, but instead of settling on the familiar interior of his flat, Sherlock found himself in a tiny little place, sparsely furnished and surprisingly chilly, but clean. He looked around. “Where am I? Where have you taken me? I thought you were to return me to my flat.” There was an abandoned newspaper on the coffee table, the only real sign of life save the used mug in the sink and the pair of trainers by the door. Sherlock walked over and studied the paper. The date was Christmas Eve, 2011. Sherlock remembered that Christmas. Triple homicide had had Scotland Yard baffled and chasing their tails. Sherlock had been having the time of his life studying the evidence. In fact, he’d been out in Greenwich following a lead on Christmas Eve, not in a sparse little flat in the heart of London, judging from the traffic noise outside. 

He turned back to C.P. Mycroft. “Where is this? This isn’t from my past, I was in Greenwich if the date on this paper is correct.” The Spirit smiled that awful smile again and nodded toward a doorway Sherlock assumed must have led to the bedroom. Slowly, he walked over. The bedroom was just as sparse as the living area had been, only a twin sized bed pushed into one corner, a dresser, and a desk with the untouched remains of what must have been dinner, or perhaps even lunch sitting atop a closed laptop. A single, solitary figure sat on the edge of the perfectly made bed, jumper hanging off his too skinny frame like bits of elephant skin. Light from the streetlamps outside caught and glinted off the metal revolver in his hands. Sherlock turned back to C.P. Mycroft. “What is this?” he asked, voice shaking just slightly. The Spirit just nodded back to the man on the bed. 

Sherlock walked to the middle of the room, eyes trained on the hunched figure of the man who’d become his flatmate in just a few short weeks. His brown eyes were dull and empty as he stared down at the revolver, turning it over in hands befitting a surgeon. His hair was still within military regulation, so either this was not long after he’d been home or he’d recently gotten it cut again, and the stiffness of his spine and the way he held his shoulders told Sherlock that his wound was still fresh enough to bother him. He was frozen, eyes wide and heart thudding in his ears as the ex-soldier raised the gun to his lips, just resting the barrel there as his eyes slipped closed and his breathing lengthened, like he was drawing up the courage. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to rush forward, to pull the gun from his hands and wrap him in a hug, whispering that everything was going to be okay, that in a few short weeks everything would change, that he would become the most important person to the world’s only consulting detective. 

The shrill sound of a phone ringing cut through the silence, making both John and Sherlock jump. The gun clattered to the floor and John reached out a shaky hand for his mobile. “Hello? Oh, hello Harry. Happy Christmas to you, too. What? Oh, well that’s wonderful! Yes, I’d love to. I’ll see the two of you there!” John hung up the phone, setting it back on the nightstand and staring down at his gun. A small smile was playing around the edges of his lips as he reached for it, clicked on the safety, and tucked it back into the drawer of his nightstand. Then he grabbed up his cane, levered himself to his feet, and limped over to the wardrobe. Sherlock felt his breath leaving him and made a silent vow to try and be nicer toward John’s sister. If she’d not called and invited him somewhere that night, Sherlock couldn’t bear to think of where he or John might be. “Six feet under, I’d presume,” C.P. Mycroft spoke up from behind him. Sherlock had nearly forgotten he was there. “John from suicide, you from sheer recklessness.” The Spirit gave a shrug. “But then, who am I to guess. I simply handle the Past. The Present and the Future are yet to come.”

He studied John’s back for a long moment, the blond oblivious to his phantasmic guests as he searched through the meager contents of the wardrobe for something suitable. “There’s… another Christmas much like this one, if you’d like to see it.” Sherlock felt his blood run cold as he finally turned away from his friend to face the Spirit. He knew what Christmas the Spirit was likely referring to. The Christmas during which he’d been “dead”. He shook his head vigorously. “No,” he croaked, “no I  _ don’t  _ want to see that. I don’t want to see any more of mine or John’s or  _ anyone’s  _ past Christmases. Take me home, I’m done. You hear me? I’m finished with this stupid lesson! Take me home!” But the umbrella was already spinning, the tiny little flat around them rippling and dissolving. 

Fighting the sudden wave of vertigo, Sherlock rushed toward the Spirit, intent on stopping whatever plans he had in mind, but instead of making contact with solid flesh, Sherlock found himself passing right through and colliding with John’s chair, nearly sending it toppling over backwards.  Managing to steady himself, he rounded on the Spirit, eyes wildly searching the flat for signs of the Spirit or of John. Finding the C.P. Mycroft gone, he rushed up the stairs and threw open the door to John’s bedroom, never more relieved in his life to see an empty room. He let himself sag against the doorframe, trying to get his heart and his breathing back under control. Of course John hadn’t  _ actually  _ committed suicide. Those were past events, events John probably didn’t consciously remember anymore, but it was the act of seeing his best friend so low, so helpless that had Sherlock reeling. He’d deduced during that first meeting that John was likely prone to suicidal thoughts, not unusual with injured war veterans, especially when PTSD and a psychosomatic limp are brought into the equation. 

Closing the door back, Sherlock trudged back down to the living room, finding himself beelining for John’s chair rather than the couch, curling himself into it and clutching the Union Jack pillow to his chest. The faint smell of tea and disinfectant that always clung to John still lingered on the pillow, surprisingly comforting to Sherlock’s thrown senses. There was a big difference between deducing actions, and actually seeing them playing out. Clutching the pillow tight, blood still pulsing in his ears, Sherlock felt himself starting to nod off, soothed by the comforting scent of his flatmate. 

  
  



	4. The Second of the Three Ghosts

A loud clatter from the kitchen overshadowed the two  _ dongs _ that announced the time, startling Sherlock from his nap and nearly sending him tumbling to the floor. Craning his neck over the back of the chair, he found D.I. Lestrade making himself a cup of tea, perfectly at home in a flat that was not his, nor one he was particularly welcome in. “What are you doing here? Bit early for a drugs bust, isn’t it?” Lestrade turned, cup to his lips as he took a sip, one brow raised. “Who says I’m here for a bust? Maybe I just wanted to come by and say hi.” Glass crunched beneath his boots as he stepped out of the kitchen and Sherlock noted that one of his flasks now lay shattered on the floor. “Broke your flask, by the way. Sorry.” He sounded anything but as he took another swig of tea. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood from the chair. “What the bloody hell is that monstrosity?”

Lestrade was dressed in a deep crimson jumper depicting a 3D tinsel christmas tree, ornaments, and string lights that flashed at a rate most epileptics would find unbearable. The jumper was trimmed in white fur, and the D.I. even wore a Santa hat complete with sprigs of holly. It was horrendous, but perhaps the worst was the honest to god powder horn hanging from his belt. Complete with carved hunting scenes and an old fashioned lit torch taking up a good third of it. The D.I. looked down at his ensemble, setting the mug of tea on the nearest shelf and tugging the hat off. “I admit the hat is perhaps a bit much, but I rather like the jumper. It’s eye catching.” He smirked, causing Sherlock to bite back a groan. “Makes my eyes hurt,” he muttered, throwing himself back down in the nearest chair. “So what  _ are _ you doing here? Besides drinking John’s tea.” 

The D.I. walked over until he was standing barely a meter away. “It’s Christmas Day, Sherlock. Time for your next lesson.” Sherlock’s brows reached for his hairline. “You.  _ You’re  _ one of them? First Moriarty, then Mycroft, now you. Who’s next, Molly Hooper? Donovan? Oh god, tell me it’s not Donovan. That would just be  _ beyond  _ unbearable.” Lestrade smirked. “Sorry, I’m only here for Christmas day. After that I’m dead and gone. A bit like a fruit fly, if you will. Now come on! Lot to see, little time to see it!” Sherlock sighed and climbed to his feet, following the D.I. down the stairs, sounds of traffic and cheerful people wafting in from Baker Street. They stopped at the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and Sherlock could hear humming coming from inside. “Come on,” Lestrade grinned before leading Sherlock straight through the door. 

Mrs. Hudson was humming merrily while she stirred something on the stove, occasionally piping in on the story the other occupant of the room was saying. It was a woman, maybe two years younger than the landlady but who Sherlock assumed was her sister due to their similarities in facial features. Her dark hair was a tad less grey, pulled up into a curling bun at the top of her head. Both women were festively dressed as Ms. Sisson regaled her sister with some story about a gentleman she’d gone on a date with who turned out to be the dullest man she’d ever met. “Elizabeth Sisson,” Lestrade said, nodding toward the woman. “Mrs. Hudson’s sister. Flew in early this morning just for the holiday.” Walking over, Lestrade tugged loose the horn, shaking a bit of something that looked like gold glitter into the pan Mrs. Hudson was stirring before returning it to his belt.

“What is that?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the pan suspiciously. Lestrade grinned. “Relax, Sherlock. I’m not poisoning your landlady. It’s Blessings. I sprinkle them into the dishes of those who need it most. Lord knows she needs all she can get, putting up with you and all.” Sherlock bit back a response, instead opting to follow the D.I. back out and onto the street. It had evidently snowed at some point, the light dusting of powder covering the road and walkway, cabs cutting dark lines through the white as they heralded people off to family and friends. Store fronts displayed increasingly gaudy scenes of Santa and his elves, or of decked out trees with professionally wrapped presents piled beneath them. The sight sent a sting through Sherlock’s chest as he remembered the small tree John had brought home. The same one Sherlock had thrown into the fireplace. “Why must people insist on such garish displays of holiday spirit?” he asked, more rhetorically than literally, but beside him Lestrade just shrugged. “Why did you have to destroy John’s decorations?” 

Sherlock’s frown deepened and he turned from the display. “I think such displays are distracting, childish, and unnecessary.” Lestrade raised a brow. “Then why didn’t you just ask John to take them down? I’m sure he would have without much complaint. It was certainly better than destroying every bit of cheer he tried to bring into that dreary place you call a flat.” Sherlock fell silent, retort dying on his tongue. This being was not D.I. Lestrade. Much as he was loath to admit it, this was some…  _ otherworldly being  _ who was evidently one of a trio hellbent on disrupting a peaceful night at home in his flat in order to plausibly teach him some unknown reason. So he would do what he was told. He would listen. 

They continued on, Lestrade occasionally popping into a home or a shelter, Sherlock watching from the windows as he sprinkled blessings over their food. Finally, after it had felt like they’d walked through half of London, they stopped at a tiny little ground floor apartment. “Molly’s place, what are we doing here?” Lestrade just shushed him and led him through the door. Molly was curled up on the couch dressed in a pair of warm looking plaid pajama bottoms and a cozy oatmeal colored jumper. The telly was on, playing some cheesy holiday flick and there was a roaring fire behind the grate. “Molly, love, cheer up! It’s Christmas! You can’t let what he said get to your head, you know what he’s like!” The speaker was a handsome young man with a head full of ginger curls, dressed similarly to Molly only with the addition of a pair of cartoon character slippers as he emerged from the kitchen, two mugs of cocoa topped with a healthy serving of whip cream in his hands. 

_ This must be the new boyfriend,  _ Sherlock thought to himself, watching as Molly accepted the beverage before curling into his side. “I know, I know… He never means any of it, it’s all just things he says. Especially when he’s angry. It just, sometimes it becomes too much.” She took a sip of cocoa and let out a soft sigh, whip cream leaving behind a white moustache across her top lip. The young man wiped it away with a thumb. Molly smiled up at him, pecking him on the cheek before continuing. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether or not Dr. Watson deserves a metal or admittance, putting up with him the way he does.” 

Sherlock felt his chest tighten. The words he’d said to Molly at Barts the other day echoing back through his head. He’d been throwing barbs with the soul purpose to hurt, to see her pretty face crumble in on itself. He’d been in a foul mood and seeing her going on so happy about what she and Sean were going to do to celebrate the holidays had made his mood even more so. He’d wanted to make her feel just as black and awful as he did. Seeing her now, curled up into the young man who clearly adored her while they watched crap telly and drank cocoa, he wished he could take every one of those words back. Even now, when she should be the happiest, she was still being haunted by  _ him.  _ By his words. He felt a hand on his shoulder, turning to find Lestrade watching him with a sad sort of smile. “Come on,” he said. “She’s taken care of. We’ve got more to see.” 

They stepped out of the home and onto an unfamiliar street. Lestrade led him down past humble brownstones and small houses until they stopped at a small two story with inflatable reindeer on the front lawn and several cars parked in the drive. “Where are we?” Sherlock asked, face pulling into a frown. “How did we get here?” Lestrade said nothing, instead gesturing toward the front window. Slightly annoyed, Sherlock skipped up the stairs and peered through the fogged glass. John sat in an overstuffed armchair, accepting a cup of what Sherlock guessed was probably tea from an elderly woman with long steel grey hair pulled back from her face. He was smiling, but he looked exhausted, as though something were sitting on him and draining the life from him. A thick white gauze was wrapped around one hand.  _ Burned rescuing that ridiculous photograph from the fireplace, _ Sherlock’s brain supplied. 

Across from him in another armchair sat a man maybe a little older than the woman who’d brought the tea, though all Sherlock was able to make of him was the back of his balding salt and pepper hair. John laughed at something the man had evidently said before looking back like his name had been called. A moment later a pretty woman with short blonde hair came around the corner and gave John a peck to the temple before joining the older woman on the couch.  _ Mary,  _ Sherlock recognized. He’d met her a couple times, evidently she’d been partially responsible for helping John get through his… absence. By the looks of things, however, there appeared to have been a little more than just emotional support. He felt a pang of jealousy shoot through his chest as he watched John laughing in the warmth of the house. 

“Come on,” Lestrade said from right behind him, provoking a start that he tried to hide behind a shiver. He was just wearing his pajamas and dressing gown after all. The cocked brow, however, told him he’d been unusually unsuccessful. He followed the D.I. through the door, letting out a soft sigh as warmth sank into his skin. The small sitting room was cozy and warm, the smell of baking wafting throughout and reminding Sherlock that the last thing he’d eaten was the bit of toast John had forced into him the other morning. Mr. Morstan was asking John how the surgery was going while Mrs. Morstan engaged Mary in talks about fashion trends and who was dating who on the celebrity magazines. John looked comfortable, Sherlock noted. He fit into this tiny little family dynamic, just like he could fit into any environment with rounded, moldable edges. Nothing like Sherlock, who’s sharp angles and even sharper tongue often got him into more trouble than he often meant to. 

“And what about your detective friend?” Mr. Morstan asked, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to the conversations going on around him. Mary and her mother had fallen silent, attention turned to this new topic of interest. Mrs. Morstan looked politely curious, while Mary was looking at John with sympathy. Sherlock was clearly a topic that came up often. John smiled, but there was something in it that Sherlock couldn’t place but knew he didn’t like. Those kinds of looks didn’t belong on his friend’s face. “Sherlock?” John started. “He’s doing well, just finished helping the Yard with a rather troublesome case too.” He left out the part where that case had been over a week ago, and the most troublesome part of it had been when one of the idiot newbie sergents had trampled across the crime scene to get away from a bee. 

Mr. Morstan nodded, lips pursing just slightly. “So where is he, then? Just finishing a case is a cause for celebration! Why didn’t you bring the young man along! Seeing as you left our Mary for him.” The last part was said in a nearly indistinguishable grumble, but it was still loud enough for the occupants to hear. John’s face turned red as he set the cup he’d about to be taking a sip from back on the saucer and Mary’s eyes were wide in mortification. “Dad!” She exclaimed, cheeks a shade pinker than they had been. Her father’s frown just deepened. “Well? It’s the truth, isn’t it? You two were good for one another, you were  _ there  _ for him while that  _ consulting detective _ was off playing dead, and then back he comes and you’re off to the sidelines!” 

Mary’s face had flushed deep with a mix of embarrassment and anger. “Dad, this is inappropriate. John and I were only friends, always have been--” 

“No, Mary, it’s alright,” John cut in with a sigh, setting the cup and saucer down on an end table before folding his hands and turning to Mr. Morstan. Sherlock didn’t miss the way his fingers picked idly at the edges of the gauze. “Sir, I love your daughter, she was there for me during a time I felt completely hopeless, and I will forever be grateful to her for that. But it was never more than just a friendship. She is closer to me than my own sister, and I wouldn’t change that for the world. Sherlock Holmes is my best friend. He’s the first one to find me and piece me back together again when I came home from the war. He’s brilliant and egotistical and a  _ complete  _ ass sometimes, and right now I’m pretty sure he’s moping about the flat dead set on being a Scrooge, but so long as he doesn’t burn the place down I’ll still go back at the end of the day.” 

Silence fell over the room as John finished, Mr. Morstan looking startled and a bit chastened by John’s tone, and Mary and her mother wearing matching smiles, though Mary’s eyes glinted with a knowing that dusted John’s cheeks pink when he caught her eye. Behind all of them, Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe. His eyes were stinging and when he lifted a hand to rub at them, his fingers came away wet. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so emotional, Sherlock,” Lestrade said from behind him. Sherlock frowned and wiped the traces away. “Oh please, he was probably just saying all those things to shut Mary’s nosy father up.” The D.I. cocked a disbelieving brow but kept silent. Instead they watched as Mary clapped her hands and declared supper to be ready before standing and ushering her parents into the dining room. She hung back as John stood. 

“John, I am so sorry about all that. I warned them before you came over but I guess my dad just decided not to listen.” John smiled, the exhaustion back and heavy around his eyes. “It’s fine, Mary. Really.” The blonde woman offered a sympathetic smile. “He really destroyed every bit of decoration you tried to put up?” Lestrade shot Sherlock a look that bordered on horrified while John huffed out a laugh. “I don’t think it started on purpose. I’m sure the wreath was an accident, maybe even the lights too, but yes, he turned the book of violin arrangements into origami and the tree into kindling.” Mary’s face contorted briefly before she forced it into a smile. “Well then it’s a good thing you got to help me decorate mine! Now come on, time for supper. After we’re going to watch Christmas movies if you want to stay a bit longer.” The two disappeared back into the dining room, John’s limp prominent as he leaned on his cane. 

Sherlock stared after them for a long time, replaying John’s words over and over in his head. John credited him for more than Sherlock felt he deserved. John referred to him as his best friend and said he’d always come back when all was said and done. The knowing look Mary had given the doctor… Something seized up inside Sherlock’s chest, but before he could properly analyze it Lestrade was laying a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, there’s one more place I want to show you.” He led the detective back out of the house and onto yet another unfamiliar street. Night had fallen and it had grown exponentially colder as they stood outside a small first floor flat. Through the window they could see a young woman with straight, mousy brown hair staring absently at the fire. A man walked in from another room and kissed the top of her head, but Sherlock caught the small flinch at the action. Spousal abuse, maybe? He turned to Lestrade. “Where are we? Why are we here?”

Lestrade let out a very put-upon sigh. “That, Sherlock, is Mrs. Jeanette Hamilton. She came by to see you earlier in the week regarding her husband. If you’ll recall, you told her her husband was having an affair with another man and she left in tears.” Sherlock could vaguely recall such an occurrence, though the fact that he was in the middle of a particularly black mood and more than a little irritable could be contributed to his lack of memory. He did, however, recall John rending him a new one over his attitude. This might also have been the same day he’d melted the fairy lights, though, so John could just be residually angry from the melting plastic smell that had refused to leave. “Was I right, then?” he asked, gesturing to the way Mrs. Hamilton subtly distanced herself from her husband’s advances. “Obviously she’s chosen to stick around, so am I to assume she’s decided to forgive him?” 

The D.I. said nothing, just looked at Sherlock in a way reminise to how he often looked at most of the Yard. Turning his back on the scene through the window, he fully faced Lestrade, noting for the first time two dark figures right behind him. They were bundled in rags like so many of London’s homeless population. “These shadows yours, Lestrade?” he asked. The D.I.’s lips curled into a grim smile and the figures stepped out into the light. Anderson and Donovan stood on either side of their boss, faces set like masks. They wore their uniforms now, Anderson in his blue onesie and Donovan in a sharp pantsuit, but their faces were smudged with dirt and Anderson’s beard had grown scraggly. 

“Don’t you recognize them, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. “You see them every day, after all. No, not as the analyst and sergeant you verbally abuse with regularity, they are Ignorance,” he gestured a hand to Anderson and Sherlock had to suppress a snort, “and Want,” he gestured to Donovan. “They are the children of Man, the ones who cry at the door and scratch at the bars of their cages. You see them in every case you work, in the actions of the killer and the accused and the victims, in the people on the streets. They clutch at their sleeves like beggars for money. They cling to you, too. Even as you breeze through the streets on the coattails of a new case, they stay by your side. Beware them both, Sherlock Holmes, but above all, beware Ignorance, for on his brow is written Doom. Even you, who claims the title of the Smartest Man, called Brilliant by your only friend, you have fallen victim to Ignorance, too focused on the bigger picture that you’ve become blind to what’s right in front of you. 

“Hello,  _ Freak, _ ” Donovan sneered, teeth bared like a rabid animal as she stepped forward and gripped one of his arms, perfectly manicured nails digging into his flesh like talons. “What happened,  _ Freak, _ ” Anderson spoke up, voice dripping with disdain as he joined his lover on Sherlock’s other side. “Dumped by your boyfriend, were you?” 

“Poor John, too broke to find somewhere better to live, he has to put up with  _ you.  _ Night and day, living with a psychopath like you, body parts strewn across the flat like some sort of biohazard zone. It’s an amazement he hasn’t left you for good yet.” 

“I bet you’re some kind of charity case to him.” Sherlock was stunned. It was true that there was no love lost between the three of them, but even when he’d thoroughly pissed the two off, never had they been low enough to drag John into their argument. Venom dripped from their every word as their grips became painfully tight and Sherlock was sure he’d find bruises later. Lestrade just continued to smile, suddenly looking far older than his years. Deep lines cut through his face and his hair was now the white of spider’s silk. “You’re not looking so good, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, trying for light and falling short. Lestrade nodded. “My time is nearly up. I told you, I was only here for the day. The last of us is coming soon. I hope for your sake you’re truly ready to listen.” 

  
  



	5. The Third of the Three Ghosts

Sherlock sat in the middle of the couch watching the final seconds tick by. Lestrade had left him with a farewell and a warning. “This is no game, Sherlock, and nobody knows that better than the Ghost of Christmases Yet to Come. If you listen to any of us tonight, listen to him.” That had been what felt like hours ago, and Sherlock’s eyes were beginning to burn from being held open so long, but he was afraid to blink, afraid to open them again to find an even worse figure before him. Whose form would it take? Mrs. Hudson? Molly? It could even be Charles Augustus Magnussen, for all he knew. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock Holmes felt well and truly afraid. 

The need to moisturize his eyes finally won out, and when the fog finally cleared, he found a soldier standing in his living room, firearm held ready but at rest and features completely concealed by helmet, goggles, and a balaklava that bore the likeness of a skeleton’s jaw. The fatigues were desert camo, as were the vest and helmet. He recognized the garb as special forces from the British Army. There was nothing distinguishable about the figure before him. They were of average height, but any tell of their build was obscured by the TAC vest and headgear. It could be the greek god Ares himself, for all Sherlock knew.“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked the being, voice shaking just slightly. The Ghost said nothing, just staring right through Sherlock with those empty looking goggles, yet the way his hair stood on end told him the soldier before him was taking in every minute detail, studying him and cataloguing everything it saw, and finding him lacking. Sherlock had never felt more exposed, even when he’d worn nothing more than a sheet to Buckingham Palace. 

“They warned me about you,” he continued, standing. “Lestrade told me that if I were to listen to no one else, I should listen to you. I’ve seen a lot tonight, a lot more than I ever believed even possible. I accept now that all of this has been for my own good, and… and I’m ready to see what you’re going to show me.” The Ghost nodded, turning it’s back on Sherlock and facing the fireplace, long since gone stone cold. Sherlock stepped up behind him, noting how the soldier’s helmet came nearly level with his curls. The fireplace behind them gave a loud groan before widening like a yawning maw, the perfect height and width for two grown adults to pass through. With a sharp wave, the soldier led him through. 

Sherlock found himself standing in the middle of the Yard, the usual hustle and bustle an odd mixture of subdued and exuberant. As he scanned the room, his eyes landed on Anderson and Donovan, squired into a corner. “I can’t believe it,” he heard Donovan say. “I can’t believe he finally did it.” Anderson nodded. “I know, after all these years hanging around here, it’s weird to not be in his shadow.” They fell silent as a sergeant Sherlock had often seen but couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of barreled past him, running straight through Sherlock’s chest in his haste. To Sherlock it felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. 

“What are they gonna do with the junk?” Donovan was asking when Sherlock tuned back into the conversation. Anderson shrugged. “Not a clue, so much of it is in complete ruin that they may need a bloody biohazard team to get in there and clear it all out. You’ve seen the place, it’s an amazement nothing happened sooner.” They likely would have continued on were it not for Lestrade choosing that moment to step out of his office. The D.I. looked tired, purpling bags forming under his eyes and at least two days worth of greying growth on his chin. “Attention!” he called, a hush falling over the Yard as everyone paused to listen. “I just got the call, robbery downtown, one casualty. Nothing serious this time, but seeing as we are short an extra pair of hands now I want everyone cooperating with one another. You hear me?” There was a chorus of ‘y’sir’s before everyone was moving again, Lestrade breathing a deep sigh before stepping into the fray, ordering some with him to the scene and others to work on preexisting cases. Sherlock turned to the soldier. 

“Donovan and Anderson seem unusually cheerful,” he said, brain turning over a list of who all was fairly disliked among the Yard. Unhygienic, evidently, greatly disliked… “Dead or fired?” he asked aloud, not really expecting the figure to answer. As expected the Ghost remained silent. Male, if the pronouns were to believe… if Lestrade was worried about the lack of extra hands then it was clearly someone who worked for the yard. “Was it Pembrook? It must be Pembrook. Complete slob of a man, his office always did resemble a pigsty. It was a wonder more evidence wasn’t contaminated down there.” The Ghost just cocked its head and continued to stare right through Sherlock. It had to have been Pembrook, the man was notoriously hated around the yard for always eating over the evidence he was supposed to be processing, leaving coffee rings on suicide notes and smears of mustard on blood samples. Still, though, it was a pity. Pembrook could always be persuaded to slip Sherlock filed evidence from cold cases for him to fiddle with in his spare time. 

The Ghost turned, leading Sherlock out of the yard and into a darkened alley that reeked of old Chinese food and rotting vegetation. The soldier marched on, seemingly oblivious to the muck and rubbish it had to track through. Given no other choice and gratefully used to such environments, Sherlock followed. The Ghost led him down the alley, around piles of rubbish and overflowing dumpsters until he was ducking under the half collapsed doorway of an abandoned building. It had obviously once been boarded up and labeled condemned, but the words had long since faded and the boards had been pried away and replaced with layer upon layer of graffiti. It looked for all the world like the kind of place one expected to find alcoholics and drug abusers. So why were they there? This was supposed to be his future, had he severely fallen off the wagon again? Was he on a case? Were they about to be treated to another visit from Mycroft having tracked him down to take him home and dry him out?

He groped in the darkness until his fingers came into contact with the rough material of the soldier’s fatigues, latching on and letting the Ghost guide him through the winding pitch black halls until they finally stepped out into what had probably once been a sitting room, now overtaken with rot and debris, stuffing falling out of broken furniture like festering wounds. A sheet had been thrown over a split open armchair that had been set back up in the middle of the room, and a man who bore startling resemblance to  _ Oliver Twist’s _ Fagin half sprawled across it, bouncing a slinky between his hands. “Is it true?” he asked aloud, not looking away from the spring toy. Sherlock thought for a moment he was addressing him and the soldier, but then he noticed the shadows shifting, London’s forgotten emerging and settling among the detritus that littered the floor. Some Sherlock recognized from his own spy network, others he recognized just from around the streets. 

A young woman with blonde dreadlocks spilling from beneath her hat stepped forward. “It’s true,” she told him, voice hoarse.  _ Likely a smoker, _ Sherlock deduced passingly. “I went by yesterday, they were carrying out boxes and loading them up in the trucks. I managed to snag a couple things before one of them Yarders chased me off.” She motioned a couple other scraggly characters forward. One of them carried a bulky, plum colored comforter, another carried a burnished wood tea chest and a pair of golden cufflinks, and the third handed the young woman a black case that may have belonged to a fiddle, or perhaps a stradivarius. “It was all we could grab without digging through the boxes, but I figure with the right market something ought to be able to fetch several quid.”

The Fagin wannabe accepted the cufflinks, turning them over in his hand before biting down on one with yellowed teeth. “Well holy hell, they really are real gold.” The young woman nodded, disgust briefly flashing across her face before it smoothed out. “Of course they are. You really expected them to be fake, coming from someone like him?” The man shot her a look before tucking the cufflinks into his pocket and reaching for the comforter. “Now this,” he commented, rubbing rough and blackened fingers over the material, “this is nice. Very warm. This’ll be lovely when that blasted New Years chill rolls in.” He draped the comforter across his lap, accepting the tea chest for a brief inspection, declaring the china inside lovely before handing it back and pointing a crooked finger to the instrument case. “And what is  _ that  _ bloody thing? Don’t tell me you actually managed to walk away with his pride and joy _ ,  _ his  _ baby.”  _

The young woman nodded, handing over the last case. From where Sherlock stood, he couldn’t tell the make of the instrument within, but he felt his lips curl in disgust the way the man stroked his fingers over it, practically salivating. “Oh yes, blimey this will do nicely. Can’t believe you managed to nick this, Sophie. Excellent job, my dear.” The woman beamed, showing off a mouth in desperate need for a visit to an orthodontist. Sherlock turned his back on the scene. “I think I get it, Spirit. Whoever this poor bastard is, he may be a bit like me. I pray for his soul if this is how he’s remembered. But please, show me something happy. Mary or Mrs. Hudson. Show me one of them. John and I are bound to be spending the holiday with one of them.” The soldier turned, walking back in the direction they’d come and leaving Sherlock scrambling to catch hold of them or risk getting lost in the dark. 

They emerged from the gap between two houses right in front of Mary’s house. Unlike the last time, there were no inflatable reindeer or snowmen on the front lawn, only a rather sad little wreath hanging from the door. With a quick glance to the soldier, Sherlock mounted the steps to the house and peered through the window. Mary and Mrs. Hudson sat together on the couch, cups of tea in hand and a tree erected in the corner of the room, but the scene was distinctly lacking the cheer it had when Sherlock last saw it. Mrs. Hudson was dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes while Mary patted her hands comfortingly. Sherlock pressed closer to the glass in order to hear, unable to bring himself to enter and intrude on the somber atmosphere. 

“I just can’t believe it,” Mrs. Hudson was saying, voice watery. “I just can’t believe it happened, that they’re gone. It’s just too unbelievable. He’d seemed so happy just the other day, we had tea and I’d made biscuits and we watched It’s a Wonderful life, and now…” The woman broke off in another round of sobs, and something with thorns and jagged edges gripped Sherlock’s heart. Mary wrapped the distraught woman in her arms, her own eyes suspiciously bright but she was clearly repressing it. “I know, Mrs. Hudson. It never stops being a wonder how quickly things can change. But it’s alright, everything’s going to be alright. Time heals all wounds and all that rubbish they keep telling you.” That drew a shaky giggle from his landlady, and she pulled back to pat Mary’s hands. “Come, dear, how about we make some tea. They’re playing Connie Prince reruns all day. Why don’t we fix ourselves something to eat and watch some telly.” 

As the two women rose and disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock turned back to the soldier, looking even more at odds in its desert gear against the white drifts of snow. So misplaced, like an ostrich in the middle of the Arctic circle. “Spirit, where’s John. Tell me it’s not John they were talking about.” Predictably, the soldier said nothing. “Spirit, please. Take me to John! Is he at Harry’s? Did he choose to spend Christmas with her this year? Did he find himself a girl to settle down with?  _ Please, _ Spirit!” he begged, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “Please, take me to John.” The soldier nodded and turned, gesturing Sherlock to follow. Together they walked down the street, the view before them beginning to whirl like a portal in a science fiction movie until it had swallowed them and spit them back out in front of a prison. 

“John is here?” Sherlock asked, shooting the Ghost a quick glance before turning back to study the building, brain wracking for what John might have done to land himself here. “Wait, I know this place. This is Foston Hall. I had a case here once. It’s a  _ women’s  _ prison. What’s John doing here? Don’t tell me. He finally found himself a girl, but she turned out to be some kind of felon and got busted, and now he can only see her during visiting hours for the next three to five.” It may have been his imagination, but the mandible on the balaklava seemed to widen just a fraction, like the mouth behind it was quirking into a brief smile. Instead, the figure led him inside, past cell blocks and inmates until they found themselves outside a cell at the end of the row. Inside sat a young woman with mousy brown hair pulled back in a messy bun, eyes rimmed with purple bags. 

The soldier turned to him, stance seeming to ask “do you remember her now?” Sherlock swallowed. “Jeanette Hamilton. What’s she doing here?” As if in answer, the air around them swirled and shifted until Sherlock found himself standing before a desk, open file before him containing the mugshot of the woman they’d just seen. According to the records, she’d caught her husband with the man he’d been having the affair with, had shot the both of them before staging it to look like a lover’s tiff and disappearing. She’d gone on to kill four more men found cheating on their spouses before the Yard had finally caught up with her. He closed the file slowly, mind unearthing the half buried image of Jeanette Hamilton in a pretty pink blouse and a brown peasant skirt, her hair pulled back from her face as she gnawed on her lip, trying to dredge up the courage to tell him what she’d come for. That image did not fit with the young woman he’d just seen in a cell. A rare wave of guilt washed over him. Had he been responsible for this? 

Swallowing hard, he turned back to the soldier. The Ghost had moved, nor had it changed position. Gun held at rest, identity completely obscured… and yet, it could see straight through Sherlock, down to his very soul. The skull printed onto his balaklava seemed to grin wider, wickedly. Like it knew something Sherlock didn’t. “Spirit,” he started. “Spirit, please. Where’s John. I asked you to take me to John and you brought me here. I understand why, you wanted me to see what my actions had inadvertently caused. But please, Spirit. Right now the one I really need to see John.” The soldier stared at him for a long time, hidden eyes studying him like he was a bug under a microscope. Finally, when Sherlock was about to fight the urge to squirm, the soldier nodded. It turned back toward the doorway, Sherlock falling into step behind it, and followed it through to the unknown. 

The first thing he registered was the cold. Wherever he was, it was a damp kind of cold, like when the wind came off the moors back at the estate. He blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog from his vision, only to realize that what he saw was actual fog. It swirled around their legs, making ghosts of the structures all around them. The soldier raised its gun for the first time, aimed, and fired a single shot into the sky. Like hostages in a bank, the fog dropped, sinking to the ground like it could hug it and hold on for dear life. In their wake, stone sentinels rose from the murk, some standing proud, some leaning haphazardly on their companions. Sherlock’s blood turned to ice. 

“Spirit, why have you brought me here? Is this another lesson? Am I going to find Mycroft’s grave here somewhere? What  _ is  _ this?!” He rounded on the Ghost, who stood still and stoic as the graves spread out around them. “Where is  _ John.”  _ It came out somewhere between a plea and a growl, his heart racing a marathon inside his chest. The Ghost pointed to a head stone a few rows back from where they stood. Sherlock shook his head vigorously. “No, no…” but the hand didn’t waver. Eyes burning and bones like lead, Sherlock trudged to where the Ghost had pointed. The fog cleared from his path like roaches fleeing the light. The headstone still bore the sharp edges and smooth faces of a freshly cut marker, the earth around it still loamy from the turnover. 

Sherlock sank to his knees, one hand coming up to brush away the layer of snow that had blown up against it. “John Hamish Watson. Soldier, brother, and friend. 1979-2018. May his soul find peace in Heaven…” Sherlock’s entire body shook as he clutched at the stone. “No…” he moaned. “No… it can’t be. It’s not supposed to be like this, it  _ can’t  _ be like this!” He whirled on the Ghost who’d brought him, on the soldier without a face. Without an identity. “This isn’t real! This is just another one of your  _ stupid  _ lessons! I demand to know where John Watson is, you bastard!” The soldier only cocked its head to the side, mandible grinning mockingly in the streetlights as it pointed back to the gravestone Sherlock found himself pressed against. “Liar!” the detective bellowed, lurching to his feet and stumbling toward the soldier. “Who are you?!” he demanded, anger and panic and anguish bubbling up in his chest and threatening to drown him. “Only cowards hide their faces, so remove your helmet and  _ show me who you are!”  _

The soldier watched him silently. Sherlock could see his own reflection in those lenses. His hair was wild, sticking up in every direction and his dressing gown was smeared with dirt, and other things, he suspected. His face was streaked with muddy tears and his eyes were wide and rimmed red. He looked like a madman. Or a man with nothing else to lose. Funny how often those two coincided with one another. Finally, finally, the soldier moved. First it removed its gloves, revealing strong, tanned calloused hands.  _ Male.  _ Next came the tearing sound of velcro and the bulky vest fell to the dirt.  _ Medium build, maybe a bit more on the slim side. _ Then short fingers moved to his chin, unclipping the helmet strap and letting it fall to the ground.  _ Sandy hair, cropped short in military grade haircut.  _ Sherlock’s heart stuttered. Goggles were pulled away to reveal thick brows and piercing eyes, eyes Sherlock would know anywhere even were it not for their uniqueness. His breath wheezed as it left his lungs, like some invisible being was using them as a bellows. 

All that was left was the mask. Reaching out a shaky hand, Sherlock gripped the surprisingly soft fabric and yanked it down until it hung around the soldier’s neck, revealing the full face of John Hamish Watson. The air clicked in the back of Sherlock’s throat as he fought to draw it into his starving lungs. John’s lips curled up into a half smile. “Hello, Sherlock.” The detective reached out a hand, fingers hovering just millimeters from his friend’s cheek. He had to know if this was real, if  _ John  _ was real. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if his hand passed right through. “The gravestone…” he whispered, pain shooting up his arm from holding his position. The ghost that bore his best friend’s face nodded. “That’s right, Sherlock. I’m dead. I killed myself three days ago. Finally ate that bullet you saw me pondering all those years ago.” Sherlock shook his head, arm finally dropping. “No, it can’t be. I just saw you, you were at Mary’s. Her father was wondering why you’d not gone farther with her.”

John smiled sympathetically. It was a smile Sherlock had seen several times that night, or year, or millenia. He honestly wasn’t sure anymore how long it had been. Unlike with Mycroft, and with Lestrade, Sherlock believed John’s smile. “Sherlock,” the doctor started, “I’m not John Watson. I’m the Ghost of Christmases Yet to Come. I’m here to show you the future consequences of your actions. John Watson’s suicide is only one such consequence. It had a trigger, though.” Sherlock frowned. “A trigger? What kind of trigger?” The Ghost pointed to a headstone three down from John’s. The detective went. It was fancier than John’s had been. He wiped away the snow with much less apprehension than he had with John’s. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes. World’s First and Only Consulting Detective. 1983-2018.” Clearly Mummy or Mycroft had something to do with that. They also likely had something to do with him being buried here instead of in the family plot. Something hollow gave a thump from the vicinity of his heart and he turned his back on it to face the spirit that had brought him. “How did I die?”

“The reason changes constantly. Drug overdose, Anderson finally snapped, you went too far with a case and paid the ultimate price, or a disgruntled client finally does you in. The reason isn’t important, though. What is important, is that this time, Sherlock Holmes, you stayed dead. John Watson got to watch you die all over again, this time without the distractions playing out. This time, there was no phone call to interrupt, no kind nurse who saw a broken soul and decided to mend it. This time he hid it behind masks. And three days ago, while Mrs. Hudson watched reruns of Connie Prince, John Hamish Watson, healer of bodies and British Army Captain, put the very gun he’d used to kill for you to his head, and succumbed to the emptiness that your death left behind.”

The face before Sherlock was a blank mask as he delivered his prophecy. No emotion, no inflection, the effect reminding him too much of that day in the pool, the first time he’d nearly lost John, and had made a solemn vow to never let such a thing happen again. “Tell me it’s not true,” he croaked, bile forcing its way up his throat even as he felt the chains Moriarty had shown him digging into his flesh. “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me it can change!” The Ghost shook his head, eyes suddenly sad and showing every year they must have seen, every death predicted, every possible outcome spread across the board. “Of course they can change, Sherlock. The future is  _ constantly  _ changing. You might trip over a shoe going down the stairs tomorrow and break your neck, or you might live out your days and die peacefully in your nineties. The only thing certain about the future, is that it’s coming. And if you don’t change, neither will the writing on those stones.” 

With that, the Ghost turned and started walking into the mist. “Wait!” Sherlock called, and the being paused. “Why them? Why Moriarty, and my brother, and Lestrade? Why  _ John?”  _ The Spirit turned to face him, the light playing across his features gave his skin the appearance of being translucent, skull beneath flesh and bone grinning eerily back at him. “Moriarty was easy. You needed a face you knew well, someone just like you in enough ways. However, had the rest of us appeared to you in our true forms, you never would have listened. You’d have tamped out the light of the one you call Mycroft as soon as he’d shown you that first Christmas at home. And the Detective Inspector? Had a large Irish man in a velvet robe appeared in your kitchen wielding a flaming torch, well… we both know what would have gone on there. You’d have tried to deduce him, having no respect for anything he tried to tell you.” 

“What about you?” Sherlock asked, taking a few hesitant steps closer. The fatigues had started to ripple, darkening and melting into what was almost a robe of shadows. Those mesmerizing eyes pinning him from inside hollow bone. “Me?” the Ghost questioned. “I chose the form of the Unknown Soldier for the sake of ambiguity. To hide and watch without needing to worry that you’d censor your emotions. I chose the face of John Hamish Watson, because he is the only man alive or dead, whom you respect beyond all measure. The only one, who with a simple threat to his presence, can strike undiluted fear into your heart. What better face to choose, for teaching someone a lesson.” There was a sudden flash of light, and Sherlock found himself facing not his friend, but a skeletal figure cloaked in shadow, eye sockets glowing beneath the hood. “Had I first appeared in this form,” the Ghost continued, voice deepening but still echoing with the voice of John, like some form of demonic soundtrack. “You’d have thought me little more than a Halloween decoration dismissing anything I tried to show you immediately as folley. So listen now, Sherlock Holmes. Because from where I stand, that writing hasn’t changed. In one year’s time, you’ll be dead, your soul wrought with the chains of your own creation, the very weight of them dragging you to hell. And you’ll take John Watson with you.” 

With that, the figure turned and strode away, fog quickly emerging to cover it like a smokescreen. Sherlock found his feet and ran after it. “Wait!” he yelled, “ _ Wait! This is not how it’s supposed to end! Take me home! Let me put things right! WAIT!!”  _ but the fog was growing thicker, obscuring the spirit from view. He was running blind, lungs burning in the cold wet air as he pelted through the cemetery. Monoliths loomed out of the haze, often almost too late for him to dodge out of the way. He’d just narrowly avoided braining himself on the outstretched palm of an angel when his foot caught on something and just like that he was falling.

  
  



	6. The End of It

Sharp pain lanced up his arm as everything from the elbow down went temporarily numb.  _ Whoever decided it should be called the humerus needs his brain checked, _ he thought, forcing his eyes open. He found himself on the sitting room floor, cold fireplace directly in his line of vision. He sat up. Was he back home? Well, obviously he was back home but was it still the same time? Had he been returned to the time he’d first seen Moriarty’s ghost? Or was he trapped in that future, that terrible future where he’d been responsible for ending John’s life?  _ Newspaper, must find a newspaper. _ His thoughts were spinning frantically as he sifted through the mound of papers on his desk, sending takeaway menus and cold cases and bills scattering across the floor but he found no newspaper. 

“My mobile!” he exclaimed, diving for his coat and frantically pulling out the pockets, scattering notes and bits of tissue and an odd coin until the hard  _ thunk  _ of plastic hitting wood notified him that he’d found it. Snatching it up, he pressed down the on button, waiting for the screen to light up, but it never did. Instead he received the flashing red battery bar before it too flickered out and he once again found himself staring at his own wild reflection in darkened glass. Turning, he hurled the offending device at the wall, half hoping it would shatter but also slightly relieved when it collided with the back of the sofa and bounced harmlessly to the cushions. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, steadying his breathing enough to take proper stock of his surroundings. 

Everything appeared to be as it was the day before, scattering of browning pine needles from where the tree had been, his violin resting in it’s padded case. His abandoned mug of tea rested on the end table, but there was another resting on the bookshelf nearest the kitchen. Three large steps brought him to the shelf and he picked up the mug to examine it. It was delicate and printed with a floral pattern, likely one Mrs. Hudson had brought up and had been mixed in with their own assortment during washing. Lifting it to his nose and sniffing, he caught whiffs of flowers that told him it was likely the darjeeling tea John had picked up on a whim and found a liking for. Sherlock figured for a moment that it was likely just a forgotten mug John had fixed for himself and set down only to get distracted, but as he moved to pour it into the sink, he caught flecs of what appeared to be almost gold  _ glitter _ floating in the amber liquid. Glitter had been expressly forbidden in their flat ever since one of Sherlock’s experiments with the microplastic resulted in it working its way into every crack and crevice of their flat. They were finding it in their food, shaking it out of their clothes, and it got to the point where Lestrade had banned them from any and all crime scenes until they stopped “shedding the stuff like a bloody pride parade”. 

He lowered the mug down onto the countertop.  _ So at least some of it  _ had  _ been real…  _ he’d started to convince himself that it had all been some epic delusion, a nicotine induced dream that could have rivaled anything he’d experienced on drugs. But what day was it? He’d started it all on Christmas Eve, but there was no earthly way it was possible they’d done it all in one night. “Mrs. Hudson!” he bellowed, turning and thundering down the stairs. If there was one person he could always count on to know the day, it was Mrs. Hudson. The landlady was just opening her own door when Sherlock jumped the last three stairs. “Sherlock!” she scolded. “I swear, Sherlock, the way you rush about! One of these days you’re going to fall and break your neck!” 

Sherlock gripped her shoulders, eyes roaming over her face. She looked just the same as ever, hair brushed but with a slight dusting of flour that told him she’d been baking, likely getting ready for her sister’s visit. “Mrs. Hudson please,” he broke in, cutting off her tangent. “What day is it?” His landlady’s kind face morphed from kind exasperation to confusion and concern. “Are you alright, dear? Did something happen?” Sherlock had to fight the urge to shake her. “I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson, please. What day is it?” 

“It’s Christmas day, dear. Are you sure you’re alright?” Sherlock stepped back, hands coming up to rub at his mouth. Christmas day, he hadn’t missed it. They’d bent time around on itself. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, kissing her on the cheek before turning and rushing back up the stairs. There was still time, all the time in the world to make things right again. “Sherlock, what’s this all about?” Mrs. Hudson called after him. Sherlock froze half way up the stairs and turned. “They did it, Mrs. Hudson! They made it happen all in one night! Say hello to your sister for me!” Turning his back on her startled expression he rushed the rest of the way to his flat and slammed the door behind him. “They did it, they really did it,” he whispered to himself, throwing his body into the couch and staring at the clock. It was just past 10 in the morning. He felt too wired to try and sleep, even though he was sure he hadn’t slept at all that night. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. 

Pushing himself back up, he strode to his room, already pulling out clothing before realizing he had no idea where he was planning to go. His first thought was John, he’d go to see John, try and make things right. But John was at Mary’s, and even though he’d been to her house twice in a few hours, he had no idea where she lived. He could not recall seeing a number on a mailbox or on her front door. He hadn’t recognized the area of town, and while he was sure she lived near enough to be able to work at the clinic with John, that was still a very large radius. He briefly considered hailing a cab and just having them drive around until Sherlock recognized something, and any other day before he might have. But today was Christmas. The cabbies would rather be at home with their families than dealing with strangers who only wished to waste their time. 

Sherlock lay down on his bed and curled into a fetal position. He felt lost, well and truly lost. He was sure Mrs. Hudson would let him use her phone, but he had no idea what he’d say. Apologies didn’t seem fitting to be said over the phone. John needed to know how much he meant to Sherlock, how the doctor had saved him just as much as John gave Sherlock credit for saving  _ him _ . He needed John like he needed air, needed him as an anchor, needed his brilliant mind. He knew that now. The night in the graveyard, staring down at the headstone bearing the doctor’s name had been the shot that woke him up, had unlocked doors he hadn’t even known were locked. He pulled his knees tighter to his chest, trying to suppress the ache that had taken up residency behind his heart. As he shifted, though, something beneath him crinkled. Rolling over and shoving a hand into his pocket, he pulled out the singed photo John had rescued the previous day.

He studied it with a new understanding, memories resurfacing under a new light. He’d thought John had just been drunk, that Sherlock was just a conveniently warm body that his own had been drawn to. But now he wondered if it was something more. The way John had reacted when he’d seen it burning, the steps he’d gone through to get it back. Most would have just let it burn. A sad loss, but nothing more. An idea began forming in his head and he sat up, setting the photograph carefully on his nightstand and quickly dressing. He had an errand to run. 

____________________________

It had taken him a little over an hour, longer than he’d expected, but it had been worth it. He’d taken painstaking precautions to prepare it, had borrowed some rather tacky reindeer paper from Mrs. Hudson to wrap it with (the woman had also sent him with some gingerbread men and iced sugar cookies) but now it was ready. Setting it carefully onto the coffee table, he sat back into the couch to wait. The clock ticked along at a snail’s pace, each second dragging longer than the one before it like some horrible rendition of a Dali painting. Sherlock felt his lids growing heavy, but he didn’t want to fall asleep, afraid he might miss John, afraid that this was some kind of nightmare and he’d wake up to find nothing had been true. His eyelids lowered, and through his lashes he saw himself moping about the flat, picking up books and skimming through only to toss them back down again. Making himself a cup of tea only to put it down after a few sips. Then his phone rang. 

“Hello?” he answered, pausing in his pacing. “ _ Hello, is this Sherlock Holmes?”  _ He didn’t recognize the voice on the other end, though that meant nothing at this point. Maybe it was a client, maybe it was a telemarketer. He got so many of both he’d stopped trying to figure them out. “Speaking. How can I help you?”

“ _ We’re calling you about a John Watson. There’s been an accident, sir, and you’re listed as his emergency contact.”  _

Sherlock felt his knees buckle and he fell hard into the nearest chair. John’s chair. The chair he’d curled up in after his trip down memory lane with the Ghost of Christmas Past, the one he’d fallen asleep to the smell of John in. “What’s happened? Is he alright?” Sherlock was proud of himself for keeping his voice steady, even if it was the only thing about him that was at that moment. “ _ Car accident, sir. It appears to have been a hit and run. We’re sorry, sir. Mr. Watson is dead.”  _ The phone slipped from his hand. No, no this couldn’t be happening. He’d already seen John’s grave once, he wasn’t supposed to see it again. Not this soon. He hadn’t gotten the chance to make things right. The last things they’d said to each other had been in anger, in absentminded mocking. He’d been blind to John’s reactions, to what he’d been saying, his only focus on his black mood and making John hurt just as much. 

A broken sound left his throat and the room blurred. Something was pressing down on him, gripping at his shoulders, touching at his face. “Sherlock?” someone called, voice gargled beyond recognition. “Sherlock, wake up.” The world was shaking. No, not the world.  _ Him.  _ He came awake with a start, shooting upright only to find himself colliding with something solid, everything spinning like a spectacularly bad carnival ride. Hands were on him, grasping at his shoulders, tapping his face, rubbing his back. “Sherlock? You with me?” He blinked open his eyes. John’s face was less than a foot away, blue-grey eyes clouded with concern. “John…” he gasped out. The doctor quirked his lips up in a small smile. “Hey, sleepy head. You alright?” Sherlock nodded, eyes roving over the doctor’s face, reassuring himself that he was really there. “You’re here…” he breathed, righting himself on the couch and clasping his hands together to prevent them from reaching out, from touching and proving with all his senses that his friend really was there.  _ You’re being irrational, _ he scolded himself.  _ It was just a dream.  _

John’s lips had dropped into a small frown and he reached out a calloused hand to touch Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re a bit warm,” he stated, not moving the hand. “You sure you’re alright?” Sherlock nodded, mentally shaking the clinging dregs from his mind. “Yes, fine. It’s just been a bit of a night. What time is it?” John finally removed his hand to check his watch, and Sherlock found himself instantly missing the warmth. “It’s half past six in the evening. I tried calling earlier, you let your mobile die again--”

“What day?” He cut in. This question earned him another look, but he had to know. What were the chances that he’d slept through nearly the entirety of Christmas day? John had said before leaving that he might not be back until Boxing Day, and when Lestrade had shown him Mary’s house on Christmas day John had looked in no rush to leave. “It’s still Christmas Day, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson told me you’d asked her the same question earlier this morning. She said you were a bit off then too. Do I need to go find the thermometer and make sure you’re not running a temp?” Sherlock shook his head and batted away the hand that was reaching for his forehead again. “I assure you. I am perfectly fine. It has just been a very long night. But what are you doing here? I thought Mary and her parents had invited you to stay for supper and movies.” 

John’s brows shot up and Sherlock realized what he’d just let slip. “How did you… never mind.” John’s eyes dropped and his cheeks took on a pink hue. “They did, but I politely declined. I… I missed you. I decided that even if you were going to be a Scrooge, you didn’t deserve to spent the  _ entire  _ holiday alone.” He glanced up at Sherlock from under his pale lashes, smiling warmly. Sherlock felt his own face grow warm as he stared back, heart thudding almost painfully behind his ribcage. An awkward silence had fallen in the wake of John’s words, and the doctor had started shifting uncomfortably from his perch on the coffee table. “I was thinking Chinese takeaway, if you’re hungry. Or maybe Indian. God only knows when the last time you had anything other than tea. Do you know what you want? Or should I bring you the menus…” 

“John stop.” Sherlock cut in, one hand shooting out to grab a jumper clad wrist and effectively freezing the rambling man mid-rise. “John, I’m sorry for my behavior over the past week. My mood toward you and toward others was inexcusable, as was the destruction of the Christmas decorations you tried to bring in. Christmases have always been… difficult, ever since I was a child, but that still does not forgive my action.” John’s eyes were wide with surprise as he slowly sank back down onto the coffee table. “Sherlock,” he started, “I get it. It’s fine, really. You could have just asked me to take them down instead of destroying them, but I’ve forgiven you. If I’m being honest with myself, I’d forgiven you before the cab even dropped me off at Mary’s. You should know, Sherlock, I’ll always come back.” 

Sherlock felt a stinging behind his eyes and didn’t realize he’d started crying until he felt a rough thumb rubbing across his cheekbone, smearing away the moisture. “John… last night I… it was made apparent to me just how much I rely on you. How much you mean to me, and the idea of something happening to either of us and you never knowing it…” The tears were falling harder, his voice quivering. His emotions felt out of control, foreign. Like whatever those Spirits had done to him, they’d broken open the lock he kept them tightly under and unleashed them. 

There were hands on his face, combing through his hair, wiping away his tears, cupping his cheeks. “Sherlock, Sherlock it’s okay. I’m fine, we’re fine. I need you to take deep breaths with me, okay? Deep breaths…” John’s voice was low and steady, like a metronome; grounding him. He sucked in a shaking breath, huffing more out than actually pulling into his lungs, but after a few more they were evening out, steadying, falling into rhythm with the breaths huffing across his lips from the man in front of him, close enough to where all Sherlock would have to was tilt his head just so and lean in… The thought hadn’t even finished processing and there were lips against his own; soft, slightly chapped from the cold, but warm. Oh so warm… and all too soon they were pulling away, Sherlock chasing after them, wanting,  _ needing  _ the contact back. He heard a soft chuckle and blinked open his eyes.  _ When had they closed? _ John was a few inches away, eyes glinting and lips damp. Sherlock wanted to dive back in, wanted to trace that cupid’s bow with the tip of his tongue, learn every ridge and hollow of that mouth. 

“You mean the world to me too, Sherlock,” he said, “but what brought all this on?” Sherlock huffed and pressed his forehead to John’s. “Let’s just say I had some… interesting visitors last night.” John chuckled and stood, landing a kiss to Sherlock’s mess of curls before making his way to the kitchen. “So, Chinese? You want your usual?” the detective gave a sound of acknowledgement and sat back into the couch, trying to get his brain around recent events. He’d traveled from his childhood to a truly awful future in the span of a few hours, had learned things about himself that he swore he’d never forget, and he kissed his flatmate. A flatmate he’d had unacknowledged feelings toward for some time now, and who evidently returned said feelings. He smiled, breathing in deep and letting out all the stale anxiety that had been residing there. 

“What’s this?” John’s question broke through his reverie and he opened his eyes, seeing a familiarly wrapped parcel in his hand. He blushed. “It’s a gift. For you.” John’s brows bounced in curiosity and he collapsed onto the couch next to the taller man, fingers slipping under the corners of the paper, peeling it away and revealing a small wooden frame painted a candy red, with  _ Merry Christmas  _ written in a holly green cursive script. Inside the frame was the picture John had rescued from the fire. It was still singed around the edges, but the man Sherlock had taken it to had cleaned it up as best he could before framing it. “Turn it over,” he said, voice low. John flipped it over. On the back of the frame was an inscription. 

_ John,  _

_ You amaze me in more ways than I ever thought another person could. I have spent my entire life dealing with people I felt as inferior in intelligence, dimwitted and not worth the time to explain what they’re missing. And then I met you. I knew from that first day you were something different. You called me brilliant, when all I’d ever heard was that I was an ass, told to piss off when they didn’t like what they heard. Last night I dreamed of a future where my actions had inadvertently ended your life, and I realized that any future like that was not a future I ever want to face. I love you, John Watson. _

_ Sherlock _

John was blinking tears from his eyes when he looked back up at Sherlock. The detective took one of the other man’s hands, the one with the plastered burn, the burn he’d received trying to rescue the very picture from the fire. Cradling it in his, he lifted it to his mouth and pressed a kiss over the bandage. “Call it a dream, call it a premonition, even I don’t have the proper words for it. But I found myself standing at your grave, and I was the one responsible. That is not something I can ever unsee, and something I  _ cannot  _ allow to come true. I love you, John. I’m sorry for everything I did, everything I said yesterday. And I promise to spend the rest of my life making amends. If you’ll let me.” A smile was tugging at John’s lips as he leaned forward, setting the picture carefully on the coffee table before turning and pulling Sherlock into a hug. “Sherlock, you have nothing to be apologizing for. I forgive you, I’ve always forgiven you. For everything. I love you too, Sherlock Holmes.” 

The two pressed together in another kiss, full of promises and potential. They had a long way to go, but they’d get there together. The writing had been sponged away from that stone, the future rewritten. Later he would call one Mrs. Jeanette Hamilton and apologize, tell her she was not responsible for her husband’s actions and that she should confront him, but for right now, wrapped in the arms of his best friend and more, all was well. 

~FIN~

  
  



End file.
